Learning curves: a novel of sex, suits, and business affairs

by Gemma Townley

  I should read a book. Of course, she thought with the beginnings of a smile. He’s a bookseller. I need to be able to talk about books.

  Quickly Jen raced to the bookshelves in her sitting room and stared at them for several minutes in search of inspiration. Something impressive, she thought. James Joyce maybe. Or the biography of William Pitt that she’d seen in a bookshop window and bought on a day when she’d decided she didn’t know enough about history, then never quite got round to reading. It had had very good reviews. And the more it sat there waiting to be read, the more it filled her with utter dread—page after page of factual detail with no sex, intrigue, or real plot of any sort. She felt like Alice in Wonderland wondering how anyone could read a book without pictures in it.

  Still, Daniel was bound to be impressed if she could talk about a book on an eighteenth-century politician, wasn’t he? Or was William Pitt seventeenth century?

  Jen picked up the book and flicked to the introduction. Blah blah prime minister. Blah blah died young. Was a politician all his life.

  You weren’t meant to bring up politics, religion, or sex, were you? she thought suddenly. Not on a first date.

  This isn’t a date, Jen reminded herself. It’s research.

  She looked at her watch. Twelve-fifteen P.M. It was time to go.

  Daniel was waiting for her outside the shop, wearing a beautiful well-worn gray cashmere coat and Jen felt an almost irresistible urge to reach out and touch it. Instead, she smiled as naturally as she could manage in the circumstances, said hello, and then stood there awkwardly for a second or two before Daniel held out his arm and said “Shall we?”

  “So, do you go to bookshops much?” he asked once they were in the warm surroundings of Book City, turning round to look Jen right in the eye. “Or was your assignment research more desk-based?”

  “Quite a lot . . .” Jen said tentatively. She was feeling incredibly nervous and was finding it hard to relax.

  “When? When do you go and how long do you stay there and what makes you buy something?”

  Daniel was still looking at her intently and Jen found herself getting hot. She took off her jacket, partly to cool herself down and partly to give herself an excuse to look away briefly. You could drown in eyes like that.

  “Well,” she said, taking a few minutes to try and remember not just when she went to bookshops, but what her name was, where she lived, and what day of the week it was. “I suppose I go a lot during my lunch hour—when I take one. And also on Saturdays—if I’m out shopping or something. Like the other day, I bought the latest biography of William Pitt.”

  “Which one?”

  Jen reddened. “Which biography?” she asked.

  “No, which Pitt? The younger or the elder?”

  “There were two of them?” The incredulous comment left her mouth before she’d had time to think about it, to make an informed guess. But instead of looking at her as if she were utterly stupid, Daniel grinned.

  “I’m sorry, that wasn’t fair. So what made you buy it? We don’t usually get many young women buying historical biographies. The typical demographic is men in their fifties and sixties.”

  Jen hesitated. “Actually, it was a self-improvement thing. I’d just decided I didn’t know enough about British history.”

  “And do you now?”

  Jen smiled weakly. “Actually I haven’t read it. Yet.”

  Daniel grinned again, putting his hand through his hair, and leaving it there, twiddling some strands together between his fingers. Jen found herself staring at it and she shook herself quickly.

  “So, back to the shop. What would make it better. What would draw more customers in? You’re in the bookstore—what are you looking at?” Daniel asked her.

  You, Jen thought, but didn’t say it. Instead she looked around and her eyes fell on the tables in front of her. “The display tables.”

  “Only the display tables?”

  Jen tried to concentrate—this was beginning to feel like an exam. “Well, unless I know exactly what I want,” she said seriously. “Then I’ll go and look by the name of the author or something.”

  Daniel nodded, his eyes bright. “And how often do you know exactly what you want?”

  Jen thought for a moment. “Actually, not that often,” she admitted. “I mean, I’ll default to authors I know, but usually I just browse and wait for something to grab me.”

  This was great, she thought to herself—just the sort of thing she should be doing for her MBA course. She was really pleased. And if her smile seemed to have faded slightly, it was no big deal—it was like she’d thought all along; this was a work meeting. Daniel wanted her input to his strategy, not a cozy date looking at books together. It had been ridiculous of her to think anything else; his exact words had been . . . okay, she couldn’t remember his exact words, but they had definitely included the words research and external influences and hadn’t included anything like date or kissing.

  She looked at Daniel and was alarmed to see that he was frowning.

  “Is everything okay?” she ventured.

  Daniel nodded quickly. “Yes, of course. I was just thinking how I miss all this. Miss being on the shop floor, talking to customers, watching them get excited by books. I started out selling books and now I rarely even get the time to buy one.”

  “So how did you get to where you are?” Jen asked interestedly. “I mean, from being a bookseller?”

  Daniel smiled thoughtfully. “That’s a very long story. But the shortened version is that I started my own bookshop, and when it did well I opened up another branch, and when I had a few of them dotted around the country, Wyman’s offered to buy it and invest so that I could open up even more of them. I agreed, and I was made managing director.”

  “Wow! How long ago was that?”

  “A year,” Daniel said quietly.

  “And are you enjoying it?”

  He shrugged. “It’s okay. The board are keen for more growth, maybe another takeover, possibly a move into international markets, that sort of thing. And they’re right, of course. But I do miss . . . just, well, selling books. . . .”

  Jen watched him carefully, noted the little crease above his eyebrow and the very slight sadness in his eyes. “Then that’s what you should do,” she said quickly. “Sod international markets, just do what you want to do.”

  “Is that what you’re doing? What you want to do?”

  Jen frowned. “Absolutely. I mean, you know, kind of. I mean . . .” she trailed off, realizing as she spoke that she barely even knew what she wanted to do, let alone how to go about doing it.

  She smiled awkwardly. “Maybe it’s easier said than done,” she said with a little shrug.

  Daniel stared at her, then grinned. “So, are you hungry?”

  Jen smiled. “Shouldn’t we be watching the movements of customers and the book displays?” she asked, her eyes twinkling.

  Daniel smiled sheepishly. “Actually, I’ve got a whole load of market researchers doing that sort of thing. I was rather hoping instead that you might let me buy you lunch.”

  “You know,” Jen said, two hours later, buoyed up by nearly a whole bottle of Châteauneuf-du-Pape that Daniel had ordered before mentioning that he was actually driving and so wouldn’t be drinking more than a glass, “you’re never going to get very far with your strategic planning like this. You haven’t watched the movements of a single book-buying customer.”

  “I have!” Daniel said, looking mortally offended. “You’re a customer, aren’t you? And I think I’ve followed your movements pretty closely.”

  Jen looked down at her food, trying to hide her excitement. This hadn’t been work at all. Daniel had whisked her off to his favorite restaurant, on a little road just off Oxford Street, and they’d been here for what seemed like hours, eating divine food and talking about everything from the price of taxis to the sad fact that as you get older you start sounding like your parents and think that all music in the charts i
s infinitely inferior to anything you listened to when growing up.

  They hadn’t talked about work once.

  Except . . . suddenly Jen felt herself tighten. What if it was her driving the conversation? What if Daniel had wanted to talk about work and she’d been blathering on about there being no greater talent in the world than David Bowie?

  “What about external influences,” she said coyly. “We haven’t talked about them at all.”

  Daniel looked at her curiously. “You really want to talk about external influences?” he asked.

  Jen nodded, then shook her head, then nodded again. “I’m thinking about doing my next assignment on booksellers.” She noticed Daniel raising his eyebrow at her. “After the first one went so well,” she added.

  “Booksellers the people or the companies?”

  Jen grinned. “I haven’t decided yet. You’re my first bookseller.” She caught his eye and blushed. Maybe she’d had a glass of wine too many, she thought to herself. But then again, she didn’t really care.

  Daniel raised his eyebrows at her. “You’re planning to meet more?”

  Jen shook her head and he smiled.

  “Okay, then. For what it’s worth, I think you’re rather a welcome positive influence,” he said gently, moving his hand to rest on hers. “And I’m sorry if I was firing questions at you earlier. It’s what I do when I’m nervous.”

  Jen looked at him incredulously. “You were nervous?”

  Daniel shrugged. “Maybe,” he said with a little smile. “I thought you might want me to talk shop all afternoon—no pun intended. I didn’t know if . . . well, you know.”

  “If?” she prompted gently, wondering whether it would be very forward to link her fingers through his.

  “If you’d like coffee,” he said matter-of-factly, and Jen frowned slightly as Daniel motioned upward. She followed his eyes and saw the waiter hovering over them.

  “Ah,” she said quickly. “I see what you mean.”

  After coffee, Daniel got the bill and insisted on driving her back home. They walked round the corner to where his car (a beautiful vintage Alfa Romeo Spider, Jen noted) was parked and he insisted on opening the door for her— although it was probably because the door required a good kick before it would open rather than because of any kind of gallantry.

  As the car pulled away and made its way onto Oxford Street, Jen sat back and assessed the day. Daniel was perfect, she decided. Intelligent, funny, didn’t take himself too seriously, and those eyes . . .

  And he was even taking her home. He was a gentleman. He was kind. He was . . . oh God. What happened when they got back to her flat? Would he expect her to invite him in? Why else would he have insisted on going home via her flat?

  But she couldn’t just invite him in—it was so clichéd, and suggested things that Jen wasn’t quite ready to suggest. At least she didn’t want him thinking that she was ready to suggest them, even if right now she kind of wanted to . . .

  No, she wasn’t the sort of person to invite someone in so soon, even if it was just for a cup of tea.

  Although, at the same time, she wasn’t quite ready for the afternoon to end . . .

  Jen frowned, wished she hadn’t drunk quite so much wine, and did a quick mental pros and cons list. Pros, she’d have him for a few more hours; she wanted him to kiss her; it was the polite thing to do; God, she wanted to rip his clothes off. Cons, she might never see him again, her flat was a mess . . .

  “Everything all right?” Daniel asked.

  “Great, thanks!” Jen said brightly.

  The car purred down through Green Park and Chelsea until they arrived at her road in Fulham, and Daniel drew the car to a standstill.

  “Thank you so much,” Jen said quickly. “It was really kind of you to give me a lift. And the lunch, too . . . I had a really lovely time.”

  “Me too,” said Daniel, turning off the ignition and turning to look at Jen properly. It was the kind of look that usually signalled that there might be kissing in the very near future. Jen undid her seat belt.

  “So, which one’s your flat?” Daniel asked, looking up at the building ahead of them.

  “Oh, it’s not in this building—it’s the one across the road.”

  Daniel turned to look. “That one, with the tramp standing outside?” he asked.

  Jen turned to see what he was looking at. “Yes,” she said. “The one with the . . .” She peered more closely, then let out a little yelp. “Oh, God. That’s not a tramp. That’s Gavin, my ex-boyfriend.”

  Daniel raised his eyebrows and quickly sat up a bit straighter. “Oh, right. I, er, better let you go, then.”

  “No, don’t. I mean, I don’t know what he’s doing here. There’s no reason why you should go . . .”

  Gavin had turned around and was staring at Daniel, who was doing his best not to stare back.

  “No, really, it looks like he wants to talk to you. I . . . I’ve got to get back anyway . . .” he said, his voice suddenly less intimate.

  “I’m so sorry,” Jen said despondently. “I . . .”

  “Look, it’s really no problem,” Daniel said quickly with a sudden and false-looking smile on his face. “You go and . . . well, you go.”

  As she got out of the car, Jen leaned down to look at him one last time.

  “See you,” she said, with a slight question mark at the end.

  “Yeah. It was fun,” Daniel said with a wink, and turned the engine back on.

  Jen watched him drive off, then turned round to face Gavin.

  “And what the hell do you want?” she asked crossly.

  12

  “What are you doing here?” Jen asked again.

  She looked irritably at Gavin’s mousy hair, which looked like it hadn’t had a wash in several weeks, and his lopsided grin.

  “I came to see you, gorgeous. Didn’t realize I’d be interrupting anything. He a friend of yours, is he?”

  Jen ignored him, taking out her key and opening her front door.

  “You’re looking . . . good,” Gavin said in a voice that suggested he thought the opposite. “Smart, I mean. Shiny hair.”

  “You’re looking like shit,” Jen replied cautiously. “What’s with the clothes?”

  Gavin grinned. “And I thought you liked a bit of rough. Well, next time I’ll know to bring my sports car.”

  Jen raised her eyebrow at him and he shrugged. “Just been helping organize a rally against a supermarket,” he said, lolloping into the kitchen and helping himself to a large glass of milk. “Ended up meeting some really cool travelers so I’ve been kicking around with them for a while.”

  Jen nodded. “So that would explain the hair,” she said curtly.

  Gavin grinned sheepishly. “I think it suits me, actually. Mind you, I could kill for a bath. If we’re friends, that is?”

  He looked at Jen hopefully and she tutted like an irritated mother. “You can’t just keep coming round here,” she said brusquely. “I’m not your girlfriend anymore. I’ve got my own life now.”

  Gavin looked hurt. “But you’re my friend,” he said. “I can go, if you want. Steve said I could sleep on his floor . . .”

  He picked up the large, musty-looking bag he’d been carrying and moved slowly toward the door. Jen let him get halfway there, then relented. “One bath. That’s it.”

  “And some food?” His eyes were twinkling now. “You do the best food, Jen. Just one meal, and tomorrow I’ll be off, I promise.”

  “Tomorrow?”

  Gavin grinned and leaned over to kiss her on the cheek. “You wouldn’t kick me out, would you? Not now I’m here. Not when you haven’t seen me for so long?”

  Jen folded her arms and looked at him. Gavin was unlike anyone else she’d ever known. Energetic, charming, hopeless at practical things but better than anyone else at what he did best—drawing people in, getting support, and winning people over. Everyone wanted to look after him, everyone wanted to be close to him. But he was like a stra
y cat—affectionate and loving when he needed something, then off like the wind once his appetite was satisfied. As his girlfriend, Jen had been envied and pitied in equal measure by those around them. But, she’d discovered, not being his girlfriend anymore didn’t seem to offer the protection from him that she’d expected.

  “You’re going to have to find someone else to spring your little visits on, Gavin,” she said eventually. “You can stay tonight, but that’s it. Seriously. Don’t you have another girlfriend?”

  She asked the question partly to test herself. To check for her response if he said yes. She was pretty sure she was past caring.

  “Not like you.”

  “You are so transparent, Gavin. Stop with the flattery, okay? I’ve already said you can stay.”

  “You’re the best, Jen. You really are.”

  She rolled her eyes and opened the fridge, watching Gavin walk to the bathroom and start to run his bath.

  “So, you still working for your mum?” Gavin asked, simultaneously talking and wolfing down a plate of Jen’s signature green Thai curry.

  Jen frowned. “Kind of.”

  “Kind of?”

  “It’s . . . complicated.”

  Gavin grinned. “I love a bit of complication. So go on, then.”

  Jen shrugged. “Okay, but it’s a secret.”

  “Cross my heart and hope to die. Actually, I don’t hope to die. Why the fuck would I hope to die? But I won’t tell anyone.”